


Where We Keep Our Selves

by endofmeandeverything



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Oral Sex, Road Head, don't do this at home kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 17:09:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13745520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endofmeandeverything/pseuds/endofmeandeverything
Summary: We find intimacy in stolen moments.





	Where We Keep Our Selves

It’s nearly midnight in L.A., but Timmy’s body thinks it’s still in New York.  He’s exhausted and plane-sick so he can’t help the way his head lolls against the headrest of the passenger seat and he’s struggling to keep his eyes open.

 

The street lights are drifting over Armie’s face: chin-to-forehead chin-to-forehead and pausing in the hollows of his cheeks when he inhales pausing in the gap between his lips and in the ghost of smoke drifting up and away.  The light catching the gap between his lips as he opens his mouth to exhale and the pale waft of smoke before it gets sucked out the window.  The redness of the cherry on his cigarette.

 

Timothee’s insides ache.  He’s got an ache he lives with now.  He thinks he should say thank you because Armie had pulled up and pulled Timmy into the car at ass o’clock like it was nothing, no problem, to save Timmy from the cab ride and the lonely hotel room.  The grin on his face more jubilant than tired.

 

Perhaps it has to do with the loose fist draped between his thighs, the brush of knuckles against his inseam that Timmy’s sure isn’t intentional, and more with the fact that Armie shows up and sweeps him away like it’s no big thing.

 

For Armie, it’s just the thing to do.  Timmy basks in the thought that Armie will come for him.

 

He glances at Armie’s face from eyes weighted with exhaustion and knows, deep in his belly, that the minute caresses between his thighs aren’t intentional and it makes him want to cry (relief? exhaustion? hope? prayer.)  He reaches down to cup Armie’s hand between his own and feels those long fingers go slack as he winds his hands around in a net he knows is welcome (unintentional, and oh-so welcome).

 

He’s still too tired to lift his head, too tired to speak coherently.  So he breathes: “ _Armie_.”

 He means to say  _I love when you just_ touch _me_ but his brain isn't working. 

Armie drives with the same brashness with which he does everything else: steering with the heel of his hand and a cigarette perched between those slim fingers, long legs bent sharply because the car won’t accomodate the entirety of him.  When he lets go of the wheel to take a drag he steers with his knee (“Look, no hands,” he’d joked as they rode through the Italian countryside).  

 

Armie’s mouth turns up and his eyes slide ever-so briefly to Timothee’s upturned face.

 

Timmy tightens his grip and feels Armie’s fingers curl up between his own.

 

Normally Timmy likes being in the car with Armie alone because Armie appreciates that hip-hop should be played loudly enough to make conversation impossible and Elizabeth detests it, but tonight Timmy is tired in more than one way and he’s content to sit in silence and listen to the hiss of the tires on the road and their own breathing.

 

Armie exhales smoke through his nose and shifts a bit in his seat.  “Heya, sweet thing.”

 

“Hey,” says Timmy finally.  His voice sounds hoarse even though he’s not the one smoking.  “Did you miss me?”

 

A full grin crosses Armie’s face and he flicks the butt out the window and rolls up the window.  “I rolled outta bed in the middle of the night to come and get you and you ask me if I missed you?”

 

“So that’s a yes?”

 

“Brat.”  Slowly, he pulls his hand out from in between Timmy’s, but it’s only to lace their fingers together.  He chances a glance away from the road.  He looks tired too, but Timmy knows that’s because of the baby.  “I should spank you for that one.”

 

Timmy shudders and grins.  “Promise?”

 

This time the look Armie gives him is full of something else.  Suddenly he’s got a second wind of energy.  His heart, swollen with gratitude, is in his throat.

 

He unbuckles his seatbelt and slowly wriggles over to rest his chin on Armie’s shoulder.  He breathes out slow and shaky and feels Armie shift in his seat.  Just because he’s on a roll tonight and his exhaustion is making him brave and the familiar ache in his chest is making him want to touch, touch, touch, Timmy sticks his tongue out and presses just the tip of it to the place where Armie’s pulse beats.

 

“Thought you were tired."  Pretending to be cool.  

 

It annoys Timothee.  He bites down hard on tender flesh and relishes the gutteral noise that he pulls out, the surge of Armie’s hips.  He laughs (maybe a little drunk on sleeplessness) and starts shoving his hand down Armie’s slacks.

 

“Tim.”  It sounds like a warning, but Armie’s got a hard-on and he’s never shied from danger.

 

“I really missed you,” Timmy breathes into the space just below his ear.  He feels wetness between his roaming fingers but Armie is staring straight ahead and navigating them home--

 

_Home._

 

Timmy moans softly right into that rough skin under Armie’s jaw and wraps his fingers around his dick.

 

He works slow and steady, watching the way Armie’s jaw works and the way his eyes stay firmly focused on the road ahead.

 

He’s tired, and he’s in love with the way Armie’s fingers clench and unclench on the steering wheel, so Timmy slumps and presses his mouth against the bulge in Armie’s slacks, tasting the metal of his zipper and the dampness in the cotton.

 

“Tim.”  It’s half a command.

 

It’s also half a plea, and Timmy lets out a huge gust of breath and moans long and loud and Armie’s hips cooperate even if Armie won’t.

 

He jerks at his slacks, at his underwear, at his cock until it’s out.

 

The way Armie’s breathing--hard and long through his nose like he has no way to deal with this--makes Timmy laugh and, breathless himself, he rolls his head and swallows all the way down.

 

“Ugh, God, fuck.”  Armie sounds like someone punched him in the gut and his fingers slide into Timothee’s hair.  “ _Fuck_.”

 

Timmy let his mouth fill up, breathes in hard until he’s got enough spit that Armie can hear the squelching of every pull and push and the whispers of tires-on-the-road and bypassing-cars are drowned out by the sound of Timothee’s mouth on his cock and Timmy bends over farther, ignoring the way the emergency brake digs into his ribs, aware only of the fact that nonchalant Armie has both hands clenched on the wheel and those hips are pulsing up in tiny thrusts to meet the descent of Timmy’s mouth.

 

The sounds are _obscene_ , thinks Timmy.  His mouth is all filled up and he can smell _everything_ and he can _taste_ everything, and he can hear the little sob Armie lets out on every exhale that no one else but Elizabeth gets to hear.  He has his face buried in soft skin and scratchy hair and cashmere and his mouth is full of salt and sweat and Armie, but somehow he recalls the little tremble in Armie’s jaw right before he comes.  He hollows his cheeks and is gratified that Armie grunts and then groans _long_ and pulls his hair and comes hard straight down his throat.

 

Timmy sits back up and knows his cheeks are red and his hair is a mess and he sees just how wrecked he is when Armie looks at him out of the corner of his eye, swallows hard, grips the steering wheel with both hands and then says, hoarse and low: “I’m going to make you pay for that.”

 

Timothree relaxes in the passenger seat and if he lets his knees drop apart in exhaustion it’s not his fault.  “Promise?”

  



End file.
